


i swallow my fable that i was not enough

by adelicatepeach



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (kind of), 4+1, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Grounder!Bellamy Blake, Grounder!Octavia Blake, Pagan Wheel of the Year, Witch!Clarke Griffin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27314308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adelicatepeach/pseuds/adelicatepeach
Summary: Clarke marries Bellamy at Samhain.Alternatively, a 4+1 fic of made-up Grounder holidays, because Grounder ~culture~ doesn't make any sense and I wanted to play with it.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 10
Kudos: 132





	i swallow my fable that i was not enough

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Morbid Podcast, and to the Grounder!Bellamy Blake tag, because those two things (plus “Welcome to Earth” by @mauraudersgroupie) inspired this. I don’t give a flying fuck about canon (and you shouldn't either, if it doesn't serve you!), I don’t care what’s happened, I still love the early feel of this show and the basic premise of it, so sometimes I re-visit the sandbox. (And hey, pretty much everyone deserved better on this show, fight me.) Happy Halloween, ya weirdos.
> 
> As for the actual content of this; it’s loosely based on the Pagan Wheel of the Year, but I literally just googled it, so…
> 
> Title from Banks

The negotiations start early in the fall. When they find Lincoln in the summer, Clarke and Wells fight over him; should they heal him and send him back? Can they use him as leverage? They know nothing about him, but Wells wins out, and Clarke presses her lips together and works to stitch him up.

When he wakes up, Wells is there, keeping watch. After a tense discussion, Wells comes and gets Clarke, tells him Lincoln can buy them peace with Trigedakru, but they’re on their own besides that. Peace is just that; it’s nothing more. It’s not helping them survive. As Lincoln’s eyes slide away from Clarke’s, she can tell that their survival is worth nothing to him, nothing to his people.

She can hardly blame them; they’ve survived on their own for nearly a hundred years, and there’s little they can offer. Still, the peace is better than nothing, and they’re willing to try.

When Lincoln is ready to go back to his village, Clarke, Raven, and Monty follow him, leaving Wells and Miller in charge.

Lincoln told them they wouldn’t need to go with him, that he could be an ambassador, but Clarke refused as politely as she knew how and insisted she needed to escort him to ensure that he was safe on the way back. If he was their peace, there was no way she would let harm come to him on his way back.

When they reach his village, she’s struck by how comfortable his village looks. When she first encountered him in the woods, she had no idea what to expect. It was frightening to encounter another person, sure, much less someone heavily muscled and tattooed; now that she looks around, though, the village is not as rough as she would expect. There are small, but carefully built homes with thatched roofs, gardens – it looks like what she saw in history books on the Ark.

It makes the Dropship site look even more pathetic by comparison, their camp, even with what they’ve done – paltry. These people could likely steamroll them if they chose, based on the number of dwellings, and she can’t figure out why they only sent one scout.

As Lincoln walks through the village, people raise hands to him, only to falter when they see his companions. Still, Clarke can tell that he is well-known around his home, and even their presence isn’t enough to completely deter some greeting.

He leads them, finally, to a larger building, and when he opens the door, Clarke squints into the sudden dimness, before seeing a lithe, dark-haired woman sitting at a desk, her back to the door. Lincoln gestures to Clarke, and calls, “Heda?”

Clarke glances at him, surprised at both his tone and the word – something that doesn’t sound like any language she’s aware of. The woman turns around abruptly at his voice, and when Clarke sees her face, she’s struck that the woman is perhaps even younger than she is, and yet – Lincoln led them to her.

The woman flicks her eyes between Lincoln and Clarke, and although her face betrays little, Clarke recognizes a flicker of emotion that flashes across her eyes when she meets Lincoln’s eyes, before she turns back to Clarke. She stands and crosses the floor in their direction, and up close, under her makeup, Clarke is now certain that the woman is younger than she is.

Lincoln gestures to Clarke, and speaks. Clarke can’t tell if the language he used to address the woman is specific to her title, or if Lincoln is speaking in standard English for her benefit, but Clarke is appreciative that she knows what he’s saying. “I’ve brought Clarke of the Sky People back. I was injured during my mission; she healed me. Clarke, this is Octavia, the leader of our clan.”

Clarke isn’t entirely sure what to do at this point, and it’s with trepidation that she extends her hand. It’s an Old Earth custom, and she has no idea if it will be met; Octavia looks down briefly, looks over at Lincoln, and, rather than taking Clarke’s hand, grips her elbow, bringing her close.

At first, Clarke is unnerved by the closeness that the gesture creates, but as her forearm is squeezed and released, she finds herself remembering stories from across the ocean, of people who exchanged this type of handshake to check for knives. 

She’s suddenly grateful that she left her gun with Miller, and that they haven’t had time to better arm themselves.

Octavia releases her, and meets her gaze. “Clarke kom Skaikru. Your people have invaded our territory. Why are you here?”

Clarke glances at Lincoln in a panic. He didn’t say anything about the peace deal they discussed, and now she’s afraid their deal is off. He looks back and nods slightly. “We didn’t know anyone was here,” Clarke explains. “We’re part of the group of people from the Space Station,” she says, the old words for the Ark heavy in her mouth. “We were sent down to find out if Earth is inhabitable.”

She glances back at Lincoln, but he gives nothing away. “I am here to negotiate peace,” Clarke says, starting right at Octavia.

Octavia stares back, her gaze assessing. “We do not negotiate with invaders,” she says thoughtfully. “And yet, here you are. And you have healed Lincoln,” she says, looking over at him. For a brief moment, Clarke sees it again, recognizes what it is – a sudden softness.

Octavia looks back to Clarke. “You have nothing to offer. Why should we create peace with you?”

“I have healed Lincoln, as you say,” Clarke responds. “I was led to believe this good faith effort could lead to peace.”

Octavia nods, slowly. “If it is only peace you want, you may have it. But I wonder; can you survive the winter? You can heal the wounded, but can you hunt? Can you grow food?”

Clarke grits her teeth, waits out her temper. “You have guessed that we can’t, and you are right. However, as you say, we have little to offer, and so peace is the best we can hope for, right now.”

Octavia snorts. “Hope? Hope does not help you survive.” She narrows her gaze. “You are a fighter, or you wouldn’t even have made it this long. You are a healer, or Lincoln wouldn’t be here. You have things to offer, if you are willing to negotiate.”

Clarke considers. “What are you willing to offer?”

“Safety. Food. Training, if your people wish it. There are plenty of enemies here, human and otherwise. Survival.” Octavia’s response comes swiftly, in an almost careless way, but she keeps her eyes on Clarke.

“That is a strong offer,” Clarke says quietly, her brain working overtime. They have so little to offer in the face of that, and though she senses a trap, she cannot determine what it is from the information she has. She chews her lip, looks to Lincoln. He remains impassive.

“What do you ask in exchange?” Clarke asks.

“Your people move here, and you abandon your encampment. You train under our healer, and exchange information. Your people become my people, and you share your technology with us.” Octavia responds.

Clarke waits, just to see if Octavia lists anything else, then responds. “I am not the only person who leads,” she says. “I must consult with my people.”

Octavia nods. “Take your time. I assume you will have to return to your encampment.” Clarke nods. “The other thing: you will not bring guns into this village again.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow and opens her mouth to object, but Octavia beats her to it. “You will not have peace if you cannot abide by our rule. Guns have no place among our clan and our people.”

It’s almost enough to make Clarke think twice about negotiating, but in the end, when she explains it to Raven and Monty, and then to Wells and the others, there is no contest: they want to survive, and this is how they will do it. They carefully seal the guns back in the bunker, pack up their remaining useful supplies, and head west with Lincoln as their guide. 

The negotiations begin in earnest when they arrive at the village. Though there are tents and temporary shelters to set up, Miller, Raven, Clarke, and Wells are immediately whisked away to the larger building where Clarke originally met Octavia. Though she thought perhaps it was Octavia’s home, she now realizes it is a communal building, one where Octavia has space to hold meetings, like the one they join.

It is tense when they begin, and it only worsens with time. Though the agreement has begun to be fulfilled, by merging Clarke’s people in with Octavia’s, by arriving without guns, there is much still to discuss. One point of discussion, in particular, sticks in Clarke’s throat when Octavia announces it.

“In order to solidify our union, there must be a union amongst our people.” 

Clarke and Wells immediately glance at each other, and the childish part of Clarke wants to play rock, paper, scissors to determine who the victim of this particular piece of negotiation has to be, but Octavia brushes past their panic.

“As I am spoken for, it must be one of your delegates who marries into our clan,” Octavia says, and Clarke suddenly glances at Lincoln with a different perspective. “My brother is unspoken for, and is willing to marry someone from your people, Clarke.” Octavia gestures down the table at one of her people, and thought Clarke had not spared him much of a glance, she can now see the very slight resemblance, the sharpness of their features. 

Octavia’s brother is not as tall as Lincoln, but he is broad-shouldered, with curly hair and dark eyes. He meets Clarke’s gaze briefly before looking away, and though his face, like Octavia’s remains mostly composed, she thinks she sees both disdain and curiosity written in his features. 

It isn’t the best start, but it isn’t the worst.

Miller mutters under his breath, “I’ll do it,” and Clarke kicks him under the table, hiding her grin.

“What match would you like to make?” Clarke asks. She doesn’t know Grounder customs, doesn’t know enough about the evolution of gender and sexual identity from before the bombs fell. She thinks it was relatively open, but she certainly can’t assume that Miller’s comment is appropriate or not.

Octavia glances at Miller, a small smile playing at her lips (one of the first Clarke has seen). “Though we prefer a union that might yield children, Bellamy will accept a partner of any gender.”

Clarke glances back at Bellamy, relieved that they have not offended. Still, “Do you expect, um…a courtship?” she asks, and this time, she aims it more at Bellamy than at Octavia.

Clarke jumps a little when Octavia snorts and tries to cover it up with a polite cough. It’s one of the first times in the many days they’ve been working towards this agreement that she’s seen Octavia as anything other than intimidating. When Clarke settles back in her seat, she looks back at Bellamy, who’s now glaring at his sister. When he shifts his gaze back to Clarke, he says, “No. This is a political marriage.”

She nods, and turns her attention back to Octavia, whose face has returned to its usual impassivity. “May we have time to discuss?”

Octavia nods, and adjourns the meeting for an hour.

When Clarke moves to join her people, she’s stopped by a hand at her wrist. She looks up to see Bellamy looking down at her. “It is important to me that the person I marry be unpartnered,” he says seriously.

She nods slowly, but the confusion must be evident on her face, because Bellamy nods his head at Wells, and when Clarke turns to look at him, she understands. “It – uh, it isn’t an issue,” she says, shaking her head. She knew she was a likely choice, whether anyone said it explicitly or not. “It’s not like that,” she adds. Bellamy raises an eyebrow, but nods and releases her wrist.

When Clarke turns away and joins the others, she takes a deep breath before saying, “They expect it to be me.”

Raven rolls her eyes. “It doesn’t have to be. It could be me. It could be Harper, for all they care.”

Wells scuffs a boot in the dirt, before exchanging a look with Miller. The two young men look at Raven, and then at Clarke, and Clarke feels her stomach drop a little. They knew, or they suspected, even for all of Miller’s joking.

Raven looks at Miller and Wells, and puts her hands on her hips. “Well, it could be, right?”

“Raven. I’m the most advantageous match. If I marry him, it solidifies that we stay,” Clarke says, the calm in her tone belying the jitters breaking out along her skin.

Raven looks back at her, grimaces. “I want to tell you that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but…” she trails off.

Clarke’s smile feels a little brittle, but she makes a real smile out of it. “If it wasn’t on the Ark, it would be here, right?”

After all, she’s always been a pawn one way or another, she thinks as they head back into the meeting. At least she had some authority over this decision.

When the meeting adjourns, she is set to marry Bellamy within the month, and they not only have peace, they have a future.

\--  
_Samhain_

“It’s not tradition to get married at Samhain,” Octavia says as she combs out Clarke’s hair, braiding it back in small pieces. “But it’s not unlucky. It’s a good time for an alliance, the new year, especially with the dark coming on.”

Clarke nods along. The Old Earth traditions don’t seem to have lasted among the Grounders, based on what they’ve observed since they’ve been with Octavia’s people. Instead, there’s a development of new traditions mixed with ancient ones, completely unlike anything they did on the Ark. 

There’s just begun to be a slight chill in the air, and Clarke’s people are only just settling into some of the larger, communal dwellings. Clarke herself will be moving in with Bellamy permanently after their ceremony tomorrow night. 

All she’s been able to gather so far is that fire features heavily, which thrills Jasper and Raven, and that apples are involved. Otherwise, she has kept her distance from the preparations.

She isn’t in denial, per se, but she’s not really ready to accept her choices, either.

Octavia has been charged with preparing her for the celebration tomorrow, and as she’s been working on Clarke’s hair, she has also shared some of the information about the holiday. The veil between the living and dead is thin on Samhain, she says. There is much to fear as the darkness comes, Octavia explains, twisting intricate knots in Clarke’s hair. But, this has been a good year. They have plenty to be grateful for, plenty to give the spirits to appease them before winter coms. The fire, a new union – it is all to their benefit as winter approaches.

Clarke mostly listens. Much of it sounds like old fairy tales, putting salt outside the door and so on, but much of it is comforting all the same. It’s a series of changes, and her wedding is only one in a list of many. All seasons change – so, too, could Clarke.

She has no idea what Bellamy expects in a wife, in a partner. Yet, she has seen that he is a good man. Strong-willed in negotiation and discussions, capable of providing for the village, a kind with children. If she were sentimental at this point, she’d think he’d make an excellent partner. As it is, she just hopes they get along. 

The thought of a child hasn’t even crossed her mind yet; she barely knows him, and he certainly only barely knows her. They cross paths occasionally, sharing minimal conversation. They’ve had opposite schedules at meals, and in some ways, she thinks Octavia has set it up so they continue to be strangers, but – that seems improbable. It is simply an accident of chance that she is a mere night away from being married.

When she wakes in the morning and steps outside, it’s like stepping into a different world. For a brief second, she thinks she has stepped into the fairy world that Octavia described the night before, but instead, she knows that the village has been hard at work for the festival and the wedding, and that the scene in front of her is the result of that.

There is now an arch in front of the main hall, covered in bright red maple branches, and strung with apples. She knows the apples are important, that she and Bellamy will split an apple at the end of their ceremony and feed each other pieces of both halves, and that they will take the remaining apples on the arch out to the forest, but for now – it’s simply beautiful, an abundance that she never expected to see.

There aren’t any chairs set out; the preciously carved chairs, the handful of chairs that survived the bombs – those are kept in people’s homes. Instead, there are cushions, blankets strewn across the ground, ready and waiting for the ceremony to begin. Clarke takes it all in, inhales the sweet smell of smoke on the air, and though she thinks it’s a false sense, she nevertheless feels the wings of optimism rising within her.

As she watches, Bellamy traverses across the village, and she catches his eye for just a minute; she doesn’t know if it’s still bad luck to see him on their wedding day, but she raises her hand in greeting all the same; he gives her a lopsided smile and waves back before turning away and moving back to his own house – soon to be their home. Clarke shivers thinking of it, thinking of a wedding night she didn’t expect to have, in land she never expected to see.

She turns abruptly back to her tent, one of the last ones still standing. None of this is what she expected, and even as she’s relieved that there is a future for her, for the hundred – it doesn’t minimize the fear holding her heart hostage.

Still – there is no way but forward, so she gathers her things and marches toward Octavia’s home, ready to finish the preparations for the ceremony. Most of what remains is a bath and getting dressed, but Octavia has been emphatic that these things will be completed with her in attendance.

To her surprise, Octavia isn’t waiting outside her house; instead, when Clarke knocks at the door, Lincoln greets her at the door and gestures her in. Octavia is sitting at a table in their main room, and the first thing that strikes Clarke is how young Octavia looks in the moment, face still clean and holding an earthenware mug. The smell of peppermint wafts towards Clarke as Octavia beckons her into another chair across the table.

“I’m off then,” Lincoln says, brushing a kiss to the top of Octavia’s head. She looks up at him, catching his hand before he leaves, and Clarke feels her heart contract at the look of love that passes between the two of them.

Once he’s out of the house, Octavia smiles at Clarke. “So – we are to be sisters by the end of the day,” she says, and although Clarke knows she’s being teased, she also feels the terror in her heart clench a little harder. 

Still, she manages a smile. “I look forward to it,” she says, a slight laugh in her voice.

Octavia regards her seriously for a moment. “I would not lightly ask Bellamy to marry you,” she says. “Although many marriages among our clans must be political, and he knew that it would be a likelihood for him, I would have been happy had he been able to marry for love.” She frowns for a moment, looking down at the steam rising off her mug. “I was able to freely choose, and I am sorry that it is not the same for him. It feels unkind.”

Clarke tries to control her face, and fails. She’s flooded with emotions, the primary of which is gratitude. “I appreciate your honesty,” she says, and meets Octavia’s eyes. “It is not what I would have wanted for myself. But he is a good man, I can tell, and I will do right by him. You have my word,” Clarke promises.

Octavia nods, and reaches across the table. Clarke is now accustomed to the handshake of the Grounders, having met so many of them in the last month, having exchanged a slightly bruising grip with Nyko upon her introduction to the healer; this time, though, she squeezes Octavia’s arm gently before letting go.

“So, about getting ready…” Clarke trails off, trying on a smile.

Octavia laughs, downs the rest of her tea, and leads Clarke out of the house and away to the river.  
-  
It is mere hours later, it feels like, when Clarke meets Bellamy at the arch. The young woman at the head of the arch is impassive, but Clarke can feel nerves racing throughout her body. She’s dressed in a dress that Octavia found for her, her hair all done up in the complex knots that Octavia put in, and she’s wearing a crown of leaves pressed lightly atop her hair; she feels like the Princess she’s been called, in truth, but she also can’t quite get her brain and her body to line up. She knows she’s getting married, knows she has agreed to this; her body hasn’t adjusted to the reality her brain is presenting it.

Still, it is somewhat grounding to meet Bellamy’s eyes across from her. He’s clean, like she is, no makeup hiding his eyes. For all that fall is upon them, he’s wearing a sleeveless tunic, and she can see tattoos spreading down one of his arms, a stylized tree prominent among them. Like her, he’s more dressed up, but what catches her eye is the patience in his eyes. She doesn’t know him, doesn’t know how he grew up, what he was like at all before these moments, but this; she can work with patience. She can work with dedication to his people.

The ceremony is quick, much of it conducted in what Clarke now knows as Trigadesleng. She’s been given the necessary words, the meaning explained by Octavia. Octavia also mentioned that partners sometimes create their own variations on the ceremony, and Clarke nodded, but could only store the idea away while trying to memorize the words she needed to say. Still, when Bellamy says, “I devote myself to you,” her eyes snap to his, knowing it’s not part of the ceremony. It’s surprising, and there’s a bit of laugher in his face, a slight curling of his lips, and she doesn’t know what to make of it in the moment, but it’s another piece of information about him, one that she intends to mull over later.

Their hands are bound together, their blood is shared, and they are married. There isn’t much cheering from either section of the attendees, but there is polite clapping and smiles from both sections, so no one is unhappy with the arrangement, at least.

There is little celebration until later, and Octavia told her the celebration was less about their wedding, and more about the Samhain holiday itself. Clarke isn’t entirely sure what to expect, but when she follows Bellamy to his – no, their – home, she certainly doesn’t expect him to hand her a mask, carefully formed of bone and feathers, leather laces on either side to be joined behind her head.

“For tonight,” he says, handing it to her carefully.

Clarke looks at it, admires the care that has gone into it. The feathers are those of birds she would expect; blue jays and flickers, but it is designed with thought and care, and she suddenly feels a sinking in her stomach. “It’s beautiful,” she whispers, stroking the feathers. “I don’t have anything for you,” she says, meeting his eyes.

Bellamy shrugs. “I have mine already,” and he gestures to a mask resting on a small table behind them. His is also decorated with feathers, but these are from ravens, giving his mask a much more eerie presence. “Did Octavia tell you what they are for?”

Clarke shakes her head. “She mentioned that many people would be wearing them, but she didn’t say why.”

Bellamy takes the mask from her hands. “Let’s go get your things, and I’ll explain on the way.”

As they go, Bellamy tells her more about the holiday, about the veil between worlds. “You have to be careful,” he says seriously. “It is better to be disguised, so that the spirits cannot take you with them.”

Clarke shivers a little. She has some idea of how many people she’s killed since they landed on Earth, and this story sounds a little too much like haunting, like revenge, for her to be wholly comfortable with the idea. If the mask might help, she has no problem wearing it.

“Octavia also mentioned appeasing the spirits?” she asks, and – if anyone had told her three months ago that this was the type of conversation she’d be having, she would have laughed until she was blue in the face. 

But – Earth is different than they were told, and she is unwilling to be stubborn in the face of the possibilities.

“Yes,” Bellamy says, leaning down to grab Clarke’s pack off the floor of the tent. “The apples are part of this. We will be central to the ceremony in this regard. We will open an apple together tonight. It symbolizes not only our tie to each other, but allows us to see what the spirits predict. We will then leave that apple, and others, in the forest for them to have.”

“Why does opening the apple symbolize our tie? Wouldn’t splitting it open suggest a division?” Clarke asks as she breaks down the tent. The materials can be used for other things, they’ve decided, especially now that everyone is out of tents.

“It is for both of us to view,” Bellamy answers. “We interpret the answer together, and we work as a team to break it apart. This is the symbol of a good relationship. Usually Octavia and Lincoln do this, but because there’s been a marriage, it goes to those partners.”

Clarke nods. “How do we interpret the apple?”

“The best readings are done in the moment,” Bellamy says mysteriously.

Clarke huffs a laugh. “But I’ve never interpreted anything from an apple!”

Bellamy looks down, but Clarke thinks he’s hiding a smile. “You’ll see in the moment, I assure you. Trust your intuition.”  
-  
It gets dark earlier now than it did when they first landed, and even though Clarke expects this, knows that this is how season work, she nevertheless finds it surprising to be near dark so early. Still, there are torches lit everywhere, a giant bonfire blazing where there were blankets for the ceremony earlier today, and the crackling of the various fires heralds the sound of music as someone strums an instrument. 

There’s little in the way of dancing for the moment, but the sound of music is so exciting that Clarke finds herself tapping her foot along. Bellamy ducks his head again, and she’s finding that this is normal for him, hiding his amusement, and it’s – well, she thinks it’s charming, and she’s surprised to find something so emotional towards him so soon.

Before too long, everyone has donned their masks – even the hundred, and Clarke doesn’t know who has spread the information to them, who has even found masks for them, but Clarke finds she’s relieved, all the same. It would be considered dishonorable among the Grounders to not do this, but it’s still another sign of them being accepted by the Trigedakru, and every time she notices something like this, she’s relieved. They have a home among these people, a place where they’re accepted, and it’s more than she could ever have expected.

When everyone has eaten (and there’s an empty table at the head, laden with food that isn’t being touched, and Clarke can only assume this is also for the spirits, but she doesn’t know for sure), the music changes tune, speeds up a little, and now Bellamy rises, offering Clarke his hand.

“Is it time for the apple?” she asks, confused.

He laughs a little, quiet. “No, now we dance. If you want.” He looks momentarily uncertain, and Clarke is again struck by the feeling of warmth towards him. It scares her, to feel warm towards him when she barely knows him, but – 

“Sure,” she says, smiling up at him. She doesn’t know how much he can see in the darkness and under her mask, but she thinks she’s flushing a little, a little drunk on moonshine, but mostly just heady with the moment.

She has almost no coordination, when it comes down to it, especially when she’s trying to follow Bellamy, who seems to know exactly what he’s doing. Still, he leads her well, and she laughs when they sit back down. She’s certainly flushed now, from the heat of spinning around, from the heat of the fire, from the momentary joy.

“The apple will come later,” Bellamy says, referring back to Clarke’s earlier question. “It will close out the night, and will come right before we take the food to the forest.”

Clarke nods, and keeps watching. She can’t always discern her friends from the Grounders, and it’s startling, but – watching the motion brings her such peace.

It’s only many hours later, a fair amount of moonshine imbibed, a little more dancing (this time with Octavia, and then with Raven, and again with Bellamy), that she and Bellamy are finally summoned to break the apple. Clarke is stumbling with exhaustion, but Bellamy guides her gently back to the alter, and they reach up together to pluck an apple down.

It feels almost like magic when they succeed in breaking the apple; it feels like something not of this world, Clarke thinks, and she barely knows what this world is like, and she’s definitely had too much moonshine, but still – there’s a feeling in the air around her, and when she looks at Bellamy, he meets her eyes, and she thinks he feels it too, and maybe it’s not just stories, maybe it’s a little real, and when she looks back down at the apple, she sees it, the perfect pentagram, the seeds spilling out, and it feels right in a way she can’t entirely describe.

She holds her hand out to Bellamy, each of them holding half an apple, and suddenly, she doesn’t feel herself at all.

When she comes back, she thinks it’s only been mere seconds. She’s still holding the apple half, holding Bellamy’s hand, still standing. When she looks at him, he looks slightly rattled, but he smiles at her. “All done. Now we head to the forest with the others.”

“But – what about the interpretation?” Clarke asks, confused.

“We did that,” Bellamy says. “Do you not remember?” Clarke shakes her head, and Bellamy frowns. “Well, it’s not unheard of,” he says slowly. 

Clarke feels her heart rate pick up. “Bellamy, what just happened?”

“Later,” he says. “We can talk later,” and he nods towards the rest of the party, picking things up from the head table and walking towards the forest.

Clarke fights down her panic, nods. This should hardly be the strangest thing that’s happened to her since coming here, she thinks. And so, she follows Bellamy to the forest, taking care to keep her mask in place, and taking care to cover the apple with dirt exactly as he does. She wants nothing odd to come of this.

Finally, when the food has been ferried to the woods, and when people are starting to stagger towards their homes – Bellamy takes her hand, and leads her back to their home.

“Will you tell me now?” Clarke asks around a yawn and as she works to unbutton her dress. She turns around to see Bellamy sitting on the pile of furs that composes his bed, and meets his stare.

He has the grace to look away for just a moment, but he meets her eyes again almost immediately. “I would like to do some reading before confirming my theory,” he explains, hands spread out in front of him, almost like a peace offering. 

Clarke frowns when her hands can’t reach the buttons anymore, and for a brief moment she thinks of just lying down in the dress as she is, but – they’re supposed to produce a child. And – he’s not telling her everything.

If she were less tired, less inebriated, less – everything, she’d have the patience for this conversation, for getting out of her dress, for sex that she doesn’t particularly want to have right now. As it is, it feels like too much, and as she frustratedly reaches behind her again, Bellamy holds out his hands again.

“Clarke, you don’t – we don’t - ” he cuts himself off, rubs a hand over his face. “There’s no rush.”

“We’re expected to produce a child,” Clarke says, haughty. It’s the reserve she can hide behind when she needs to, the Engineer’s daughter, the Doctor’s daughter. It’s only once the words are out of her mouth that she remembers they can’t have a child right away, anyway – her implant is still active.

“It’s a long-term expectation,” Bellamy explains patiently, and Clarke stops fidgeting long enough to look at him again. He looks tired, too, but tired in a way that is separate from hers. He looks – well, for the first time, he looks like he has reservations about the whole situation, and it gives Clarke pause.

She sighs. “Okay. Let’s try this again. We are living together. Are we – are we sharing a bed? Are we – what are we doing?”

Bellamy quirks a wry smile at her. “Whatever we want. Or don’t. For now, you’re drunk, we’re both tired. Let’s just sleep.”

Clarke nods at that. “Still – can you help me with this?” She gestures at her dress.

Bellamy swallows, his throat bobbing in the light remaining in the room, and nods. He walks over to her quietly, his hands steady at her waist as he unbuttons her. Finally, she feels his hands at the back of her head, untying her mask.

“Thank you,” Clarke whispers, holding the dress to her. It’s surprisingly intimate, and she is struck by the feeling of the moment. She doesn’t have anything else to sleep in, so she knows he’ll see almost everything of her, and yet it’s this small action that makes her feel vulnerable in a way she hasn’t before.

Bellamy steps back towards the bed, and when Clarke turns back around, some of his clothing is folded in a pile, and he is under the furs.

It feels uncomfortably intimate to step out of her dress in front of the light, and yet, she knows how absurd it would look, barely draped on her, to walk over there and take it off, so she hurries out of it, and, with as much dignity as she can muster, walks toward the bed.

When she gets there, Bellamy is turned away, and Clarke slips under a fur as far from him as possible.

\--  
_Midwinter_

Snow covers the ground early, according to Bellamy, and by the time they, along with the rest of the village, move from their house into the main hall, they haven’t seen the ground in weeks. As Clarke learned it, the climate in this part of Earth was more temperate, but when Bellamy consults the library (and they have a library. Clarke isn’t much for reading fiction, but when she found some of the medical texts, she nearly wept), he shows her accounts that indicate that nuclear fallout has shifted the seasonal regime so that winter is harder, stronger, and longer here than what she learned in Earth Skills.

So, they pack up their furs, throw their warmest clothes into their wash basin, and truck the whole mess over to the main hall, where they join their people, the hundred and Trigedakru alike. Clarke has marveled over the way the groups have intermingled, but she’s beginning to think that she’ll never stop feeling gratitude and relief when she sees it. Hell, even Murphy is growing to be liked among the Trigedakru, and he’s barely even liked amongst the hundred, so it seems that miracles are actually possible.

And miracles seem to be much the focus of this time; yes, it’s survival and staying warm, but it’s also making and finding gifts to give each other, and it’s not a luxury that was ever entertained on the Ark, which makes it feel all the more special.

It’s also a significant amount of pressure, because although she and Bellamy have been living together for nearly two months, she often feels like she doesn’t know him any better than she did when they married. He’s pleasant, certainly, and they share a bed at night, but – they sleep, nothing more. She doesn’t know what brings him joy, what would cause surprise and delight in his face, and although it seems a silly problem, she’s finding it vexing all the same.

She also knows that, as with the mask at Samhain, he likely has found something for her that she would never expect, something that will bring a smile to her face, and although this isn’t supposed to be a math problem, isn’t supposed to be keeping score, she doesn’t want to be the one who always receives something.

She debates asking Octavia, even debates asking Raven, but from the first, she expects a raised eyebrow and a smirk, and from the second, she just expects to be laughed out of the room, so they’re no help at all. 

Instead, she’s found herself carefully drawing things; the flower he brought her one day, that she set in water in her mug, nearly burning her tongue in her haste to make a space for the bright blossom that he found deep in the forest, so late in the year. She draws Octavia, the look when she’s serious, and the look when she’s laughing at Lincoln. She draws and she draws, uses up one of the pencils Finn found her, and when she’s done, she carefully sews it together.

It’s not necessarily the best gift she can think of, but it’s what she can manage for now, in the middle of winter.

They’ve all been set up in the main hall for several weeks when the next storm blows in, and this time it’s right around Midwinter. Clarke has begun to associate the Trigedakru with fire, but this fire, the one burning for Midwinter, fills the communal hearth until it glows brightly all night, and even Clarke, who can sleep almost any time and anywhere, finds herself pulling a fur over her face to shut the light out at night.

Still, it is this brightness that heralds the turning of the seasons that they celebrate, the end of the longest nights, and the beginning of longer days, and she can be grateful for that, too.

Just like at Samhain, they all work together to create a feast out of what they have. When Clarke worried about how much food they would have, Bellamy told her that the one night of feasting was needed to keep people’s spirits up through the longest night, and that it would give them strength for the cold days still ahead. Just like at Samhain, the reason is more magic than logic, but Clarke can’t deny that a feast, with apple cake and something like mulled wine, is very welcome after days of eating salted venison and potatoes.

This time, though, instead of maple wreaths, the hall is decked with pine; this, Clarke remembers from books in Earth Skills, but here, it seems like the purpose is as much to banish the smell of so many of them grouped together as it is to make the hall feel festive. The tang of the pine boughs is welcome, and so is the contrast between the fire and the boughs; it makes her fingers itch with wanting paints, just so she could play with the colors and the shadows.

The morning of Midwinter finds Clarke mixing the dough for apple cake, and this, like so many other things, is not something she feels prepared for; she so rarely cooked on the Ark, and although she has basic skills, she has never imagined they extended to cake baking. 

She feels warmth behind her before she looks back, catching Bellamy’s eye as he grins at her. “Learning new skills today?”

She grimaces, and attacks the batter with the spoon again. “Something like that, I guess,” she responds. “Is it supposed to look like this?”

Bellamy steps behind her, his warmth now fully at her back. A very small part of her, the animal part that recognizes him from the nights spent sleeping near him, wants to sink back. The human part of her reminds her that they are married in name only, and theirs is a political alliance. 

Still, when he laughs next to her, she sighs just a little. “Not exactly – what did you do to make it so lumpy?”

“I don’t know!” Clarke says, exasperated. “I tried to do what Octavia told me, but…” she trails off and thumps the spoon for emphasis.

Bellamy grabs the spoon and holds it with her. “Okay, no need to get frustrated,” he says in his teacher voice. If she weren’t already so annoyed, she’d find it funny, but as it is, she huffs, tries to slip past him. He reaches around her, holds her in place, and caged though she is, she doesn’t dislike it, being wrapped up in him. “Take the spoon again, good.” He holds it with her, and shows her how to remove some of the flour clumps, smoothing out the batter with some extra elbow grease.

“See?” he says. “Much better.”

Clarke smiles, and this time she does lean back into him, just slightly. He goes very still against her before relaxing his weight against her, too, and – it’s nice.

“Thank you for showing me,” she says, turning back to him with a smile.

He gives her a smile back, then releases the spoon and ducks his head. “I, uh – I have something for you,” he says.

“I have something for you, too,” Clarke says. “Maybe we can exchange later?”

Bellamy smiles a little, rubs the back of his neck. “This is – this is separate from that,” he says, and holds out a ring. “We don’t usually use rings, here. They bend and get lost, and – precious metals don’t really mean anything anymore. But Raven mentioned that they’re still a tradition on the Ark, so I made this for you.”

Clarke reaches out for it, takes it in her hand and studies it. It’s delicate, surprisingly so, since it looks like it’s carved out of wood. “It’s beautiful, Bellamy,” she whispers, biting her lip. She’s surprised at the flood of emotion going through her, and she’s blinking harder than she expected when she looks back up at him. “Thank you so much,” she says, and she slips it onto her ring finger.

Bellamy looks at her, steady as he always is, and she feels – possessed, suddenly, to kiss his cheek. “It’s perfect, really,” she says. 

He smiles at her, just a quick upward quirk of his lips, and she thinks he’s blushing just a little under his tan. “You’re welcome,” he says a bit gruffly. “I’ll leave you to your fun with the cake, then.”

And he’s gone before she can say another word.  
-  
The ring catches her eye for the rest of the day, her mind taking in its presence and adapting to what it means. It’s a permanent reminder of their union, but in many ways, it’s more than that; it’s a symbol of his care for her, care that transcends doing what he had to do for political reasons.

It’s not flashy, like her mother’s ring; but it is beautiful in its own way, and it certainly attracts attention as she moves through the rest of the day. Octavia takes a second to look at it, and although she says nothing, her smile speaks volumes.

As they all gather, slowly bringing food together from the communal fire and kitchen, Clarke finds herself seeking out Bellamy. She still spends time with the hundred, of course; she finds herself often on shifts around the village with Raven, and she and Wells and Miller continue to consult, often now with Octavia when it comes to defensive issues, but – more and more, especially in situations like this, she searches for Bellamy.

It’s probably fairly normal, she reasons; they are married, after all, and he is her main connection to the Trigedakru, to understanding the traditions in which they’re now immersed, but even still, the genuine interest in being near him is both new and unexplored territory for her.

When he catches her eye, he waves her over, and finds that he has spread one of their larger furs on the ground, with carved wooden plates at hand. When they go up and get their food, Bellamy points out a few additional things that Clarke ends up trying, and for the first time in several weeks now, there’s flavor to her food, and Bellamy was right, this is worth it to make it through the cold weeks and months ahead.

When most people have eaten, one of the Trigedakru women gets up and sings a ballad, perfect for the Midwinter night, the tale of the sun triumphing over the dark, and though it’s only been two months since they welcomed the dark, Clarke nevertheless shivers at the possibility that the sun could ever not win against the rising darkness.

When the woman finishes her song, several other Trigedakru get up, and Bellamy leans over to Clarke and whispers, “This is my favorite part.”

She looks back over at him, sees the sparks of the fire reflected in his eyes, and suddenly she can see what he might have looked like as a boy, all eagerness and excitement.

She turns back to the scene ahead of them, and watches as they tell a story, complete with shadow puppets, the wolf chasing the bunny against the fire-lit wall. It’s a children’s story, but it is no less enjoyable now than she might have thought it when she was much younger, and it’s all the more fun now for it being new, not a story she’s heard before.

Much of the revelry carries on, other stories being told around them, and Clarke tries to absorb as much as she can. Trigedakru, and Grounder culture in general, only shares some similarities with what they learned about on the Ark, what was on Earth before the bombs; it has changed dramatically in 97 years, and Clarke often feels like she’s running a sprint to keep up. Although she finds that daily life is relatively similar day to day, holidays and festivals are full of new information, and she finds that she’s constantly working to keep up.

She’s deeply invested in the current story being told, that of ghost animals parading through the sky, when a nearby woman turns and hands her a large cup. Clarke takes it unthinkingly, before looking to Bellamy. He nods. “We share a communal drink tonight,” he says, and takes the cup from her, drinking before she does.

She does not distrust food from the Trigedakru; she hasn’t after they broke bread at their first discussion of the hundred joining the village, but she appreciates the gesture all the same. She takes a hesitant sip, and before she can think twice, she swallows and passes the cup beyond Bellamy. Then, she swallows, tasting both sweet and bitter on her tongue, and for as long as she stays upright, suddenly, she sees black.

This time, unlike during Samhain, she sees. 

Destruction. The loss of the forests and the rivers, smoke and ash rising all around. She cannot tell if this is the present or the past, if this is a future that may be, or a future that will be, and as she spins around, looking for any living being, the scene changes.

The place is the same, and how she can know that is beyond her, but it is green again, trees lining a valley, and it all seems as it should be. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Bellamy, only he is not alone; Octavia and Lincoln are with him, Octavia bearing a dark-haired child on her hip. This, she thinks, is as it should be.

Without warning, she is pulled from the vision, and Bellamy is next to her again, looking at her, and she gasps quietly, sucking air into her lungs.

“Clarke?” Bellamy murmurs, reaching for her. “Are you okay?”

She nods, biting her lip, the sensation jolting her back to wakefulness. “I’m fine,” she whispers. “I think – when I drank from the cup, it was like the interpretation.”

Bellamy’s brow furrows. “What happened?” he asks.

“I saw – I think I saw two futures,” she says slowly. “One where the valley was decimated, one where we survived. But I can’t tell what the difference was.” She shakes her head, tries to clear it, and looks back to him. “Why is this happening?”

Bellamy shakes his head. “I don’t know, Clarke.”

Clarke nods, tries to compose herself. Their whispering hasn’t really caught anyone’s attention, but Clarke certainly doesn’t need anyone paying attention too closely to her as she pulls herself back together.

Still, it’s clear that the passing of the cup is part of what winds up the night, because increasingly people are drifting off to their furs, their bedrolls. In spite of the fire, the cold is seeping in around them, and Clarke can feel her eyes drooping, even as she tries to keep listening to the stories. Finally, it is Bellamy who tugs at her hand, picks up their fur, and nudges her toward the rest of their furs.

“It is unusual, but not unheard of,” Bellamy starts, “for someone to be able to see more than the rest of us.” He’s lying on his back next to her, speaking just below a whisper. 

Clarke rolls to her stomach, turns her head towards him. “Why?”

Bellamy affects a shrug. “In general? No one knows. But as we say, the barrier between worlds is thinner at Samhain, at Midwinter. Perhaps you see beyond the moment at those times.”

Clarke hmms and shrugs down into the blankets, trying to avoid rest her head with its heavy braids on the floor.

Bellamy turns his head toward her, catches sight of the ring on her hand. “You really like it?” He asks.

Clarke smiles sleepily. “I love it. Do you want your gift now?”

Bellamy smiles back. “It can wait until the morning, Clarke. Go to sleep.”

She nods, burying her head further into the furs. She’s just drifting off when she feels a gentle tug at her head, feels his fingers trace through her hair as he unwinds some of her braids. She might nearly purr with contentment, and she hears him laugh softly. “Go to sleep,” he repeats, combing through her hair.

It’s the most contact he’s initiated with her, and it feels absolutely luxurious. As much as she wants to revel in the feeling, she can feel sleep calling to her, and it is mere moments before she’s fully asleep.

\--  
_Beltain_

“So you’re telling me that it’s significant to clean out the fireplace, get all new wood, and then have it lit from one specific fire?” Clarke asks dryly, hand on her hip.

Bellamy nods, confusion on his face.

“And the ash is sacred?’

He nods again, and Clarke can’t tell if she’s cranky because it’s one more ceremony among many, or if it’s because she’s going to get absolutely filthy cleaning the fireplace, but either way, the entire thing sounds absurd. Still – she shakes her head, sighs. “Fine. Where am I gathering the ash? And where are we putting it?”

“Well, first of all you don’t have to be the one to do it,” Bellamy starts, spreading his hands out in a peace offering. “But second, I’ll find us a bucket, and then we mix it with the soil where we plant the crops, to help enrich it.”

Clarke smiles. “That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard in days,” she teases. “And you know I’ll do it, you’re supposed to join Miller and Lincoln for a hunt.”

Bellamy nods, smiling. It’s finally warming up, and though the nights are still very cold, the ground has been thawed for several weeks now, new growth sprouting up, and with it, the hope for fresh meat, and maybe even a few greens with dinner. Beltain is only two days away, and now that Bellamy has told her what’s involved, she’s eager to get started.

There are no gifts exchanged this season, but there’s a promise; a promise of warmer air, a new season of growth, and the promise of fun after a long winter.

“I’ll be back in just a bit, then,” he says, and turns towards the doorway.

She nods, even though he’s already turned away, and she bites her lip watching him walk away. The long winter was good for one thing, certainly: she knows him, now. Knows how much he loves teaching children, knows that he can cut her hair surprisingly skillfully, knows the tender touch of his hands as he unwraps some of her braids at the end of the day. She knows what it’s like to wake up curled around him on the coldest mornings, and knows the comfort of waking wrapped up in him, too.

What she doesn’t know, really, is how to proceed. She’s heard whispers from some of the women around camp, giggles when they’re at the river in groups about Beltain, about jumping over the fires, but – she wouldn’t eve know how to begin, to be honest, even though she also guesses that it would be welcome.

Obviously there’s the normal biological reaction that men have in the night, but – the way he watches her sometimes, the regard in his eyes – that’s steadily grown through the seasons, now. There’s potential there, and it warms Clarke to think of it.

Still, when Bellamy comes back with the bucket and a trowel, the thoughts flee her mind, and she starts on the fireplace. She attacks it with a single-mindedness, anxious to get it over with so she can go to the river and clean off, and it startles when she hears Bellamy behind her, clearing his throat.

She spins around, and he grins at her sheepishly. “I have to head out. We’ll be back in time for the celebration,” he says.

She nods, swallows. “Be safe,” she says, lacing her fingers together to keep from reaching for him.

He nods, his face uncertain. Finally, he reaches toward her, squeezes her hands, and brushes his lips against her forehead. “You too. Don’t let Octavia get you into too much mischief while we’re gone,” he teases, and she manages a laugh in response. What it’s taken them all months to realize is that Octavia is in fact quite pregnant, and mischief is the farthest thing from her mind at the moment.

He rubs at her fingers once more, and then he’s out the door, and she feels so silly for feeling left behind, for feeling like a home-maker being left to tend the hearth, but it’s very literally what she’s doing, and although she knows Bellamy is more than capable, she nevertheless dislikes it when he leaves.

Still, she has plenty to do, and when she finishes with the fireplace, she heads to Octavia and Lincoln’s, only to find Octavia starting the exact chore that Clarke just finished, and she’s certainly not about to let a seven months pregnant woman clean out a fireplace, even if Octavia grumbles about being perfectly capable, Clarke, I’m not an invalid. Clarke grins at her over her shoulder, watches as Octavia gently presses a hand to her stomach.

Octavia catches her looking and raises an eyebrow. “Are you and Bell thinking about kids, yet?”

Clarke blushes, caught off guard. “Uh – we…haven’t talked about it yet.”

Octavia frowns. “I’m not particularly worried about the alliance, Clarke, if that’s what you’re thinking. Your people are doing well here. You’ve adapted well here.”

Clarke purses her lips. “Well, if we come right down to it, we’re not really doing anything about kids, or…” which has exactly the desired effect, because Octavia is suddenly clapping her hands over her ears and apologizing for even asking.

Clarke laughs for a minute while Octavia recovers, turning her attention back to the hearth.

She hears Octavia sigh behind her. “In all seriousness, Clarke - ” and Clarke does shift her attention back to Octavia, seeing that the other woman is sincere again. “There’s no pressure from me. But – if it’s something you want, all you have to do is talk to him.”

Clarke feels like squirming under Octavia’s knowing gaze, but she nods. “I appreciate the advice,” she says honestly.

Once she finishes the fireplace, she brushes her hands off and turns toward Octavia again. “Any interest in a trip to the river?” She asks, and Octavia brightens, leading the way through the forest.  
-  
Clarke returns to what Octavia told her that night as she tries to get comfortable in bed. The fire is out until Beltain, and it’s not that she’s cold, exactly, but – she’s used to Bellamy, used to sharing their space, used to his warmth next to her. She can smell him, still, and it feels like he should be there, but – she sighs, turns over again, still trying to find a spot that’s comfortable.

After a time, she gives up, laying quietly and thinking, rolling her ring along the ridge in her finger. He cares for her, she’s certain, but – this is where it gets tricky, because she doesn’t know what she wants, can’t decide if it’s just a physical itch, or – and the longer she thinks about it, thinks about how comfortable she is with him, how they’ve grown into their relationship, how, even when they don’t see each other all day, she never has any trouble cooking alongside him, listening to the stories he told the children that day, how she knows that he often wakes up briefly in the middle of the night, haunted by dreams she doesn’t fully understand, but that she can lull him back to sleep from.

That, she knows, is more than physical. It might not be true love, what she remembers from books on the Ark, but – there is a tenderness between them, and she wants to tend to it, nurture it, into a fire.  
-  
On Beltain itself, she, Raven, and Octavia spend their morning in the forest gathering flowers. Octavia reminds them to leave more than they take, to ensure that the pollinators still have enough nectar to ensure flowers for the year to come, but Clarke remains stunned not only by how many flowers they find, but by the variety. Nuclear radiation has done some truly inexplicable things to Earth, as far as she’s concerned, and while she was expecting small, early flowers, they have those and some truly astounding blossoms the size of her palm.

They decorate the doorways of their houses, and then come together with many of the other villagers to decorate the wooden pillar now in the central part of the village. Still others are putting up firewood, creating a truly impressive pyre to light later. Everything has a very festive air, and although no one is dressed up (certainly not like they were at Samhain), people are wearing their warmer weather clothing, almost as though the sheer hope of warmth will summon it to them.

It is a busy day, leading up to the nighttime festivities, and Clarke nearly forgets that Bellamy hasn’t come back until he and Miller and Lincoln walk into the firelight; backlit by the fire as he is, Clarke can only see the outline of him, and it is as though a spirit has walked from the forest to be amongst them. She shakes her head briefly, recognizing his curly hair, even in the firelight, and she moves toward him, grateful that he is home. 

She catches his eye briefly, and the look on his face sends a jolt through her – it is intense in its search, and when he sees her, he brightens, but the intensity of his face remains when he locks eyes with her, and she shivers just a little at being regarded like this. He grins just a little, and then looks away, working with Miller and Lincoln to bring forward the meat they’ve brought home.

They remain separated for a bit longer while the kill is dealt with, and then she feels his touch at her elbow, spins around to him, and without much thought, presses her mouth to where she knows his mouth is.

He stills beneath her for just a moment, and it occurs to her that she could have misread the intensity on his face, but then he’s gripping the back of her head, mouth warm against hers, and she is gone for him, she realizes.

It stays easy between them, just the two of them brushing kisses back and forth for a second, the promise building between them. Finally they pull apart, Bellamy laughing. “If I’d known that leaving was all I’d have to do…” he trails off, this time brushing his thumb along her cheekbone.

She shoves him lightly. “You leave all the time,” she laughs. “It just – took time for me.” And this time she’s serious, looking up at him. “I missed you,” she says, and this is serious, sincere.

He touches his forehead to hers. “I missed you too.”

From behind him, they hear wolf whistles, and Clarke flips whoever it is (probably Miller, she thinks) behind Bellamy’s back, even as they break apart.

“You ready to celebrate Spring?” he asks, lacing his fingers with hers. She nods, giddiness flowing through her.

Just like the other ceremonies she’s been part of and present for since their wedding, feasting is a key component of Beltain. There are berries, brand new and fresh off the bushes; it’s too early for most other fruit, and even the berries are young, their tartness bursting across tongues. The fresh fruit and the smell from the flowers has her reeling a little, even without the nearly lethal batch of moonshine Monty made specially for the occasion.

She and Bellamy keep brushing against each other throughout dinner, legs up against each other, elbows and fingers brushing, and for all that their relationship so far has had little basis in physical affection, they are nearly magnetized to each other now, each new touch sending sparks lighting along Clarke’s blood. It’s a heady combination, even before the music and dancing starts.

As they watch, various villagers take up positions at the Maypole, and as the music starts, so too does the dancing. It’s coordinated, unlike the dancing from Samhain, wild and focused solely on individual movement. Instead, this is beautiful, systematic, and complicated. Clarke watches as the dancers whirl around the pole, stomping and twirling all together, and she had no idea that this kind of dance was practiced among the Grounders, but it’s stunning, every movement carefully choreographed, and she has no idea how long this tradition has been rehearsed, but she could imagine it dating back thousands of years.

When the main dance concludes, it’s clear that the regular dancing will be taken up. Still, she and Bellamy stay where they are, his hands playing gently with her hair. It’s unlike the times he’s untangled her hair from its braids before; now, there is a tenderness, and a purposelessness to his hands that is satisfying in an entirely different way.

“When does the jumping over the fire happen?” Clarke asks, leaning towards him.

“Still a bit later,” he answers. “Why, feeling impatient?”

She rolls her eyes, but – “Maybe a little,” she laughs.

His fingers dig gently into her scalp, and she lets her head drop back at the sensation. 

“Patience,” he says, his voice rumbling through his chest at her back. She shivers slightly, and she can almost feel the grin on his face in response.

Still, she enjoys just sitting and watching their friends (their friends, she thinks. Their people, not just hers, not just Grounders) dance amongst the flowers and the flames, and though neither she nor Bellamy are inclined to join them tonight, settling instead for wrapping up in each other, there’s a joy at the start of this season, too, one she’s never experienced before.

Finally, Octavia and Lincoln take the lead, grasping hands and leaping together over one of the smaller, adjacent fires. For all that Octavia is pregnant, she and Lincoln are graceful in their jump, easy in their movements together, and they don’t even turn around before they are headed to their house, leaning into each other until they blur into one dark shape.

They watch several other couples jump over the flames, and then Bellamy squeezes her hand. “Ready?” he asks, ever so slightly tentative.

She squeezes his hand back, nods.

It’s surprisingly easy, for all that the fires aren’t small, and for all that she’s never done anything like this before. They are buoyed along by the cheers and whistles when they move toward the fire, and, at the apogee, just as at the interpretation, when she drank from the chalice, Clarke’s eyes close, and she sees again:

The first vision is grey, all grey, and she recognizes the devastation from her previous vision. This time, though, she is with a child, a dark haired girl, and Clarke doesn’t know, but she thinks they are alone, truly and completely. They are slowly traversing through sand, and this time, at the periphery of her vision, Clarke can see the stand of trees, the untouched region of the otherwise decimated world.

The scene changes, and the world is in color again. She has an arrow trained on a deer, but when she goes to loose it, she notices the slight swell of her own stomach, now, and she is so startled that she drops the arrow. She hears the rumble of laughter behind her, and it is the laugh that she knows so well now, and it sends her back to the present.

When they land, she is laughing, and he is too. Just as Octavia and Lincoln did, by unspoken agreement, they turn from the fire. Before they leave all the way, Clarke drops down and grabs one of the lit branches, taking it back to their home.

As she works to light the fire for the new season, Bellamy watches, focused on the glow of the fire as it reflects off her hair. She is at home here now, he thinks, and he is relieved. He had no idea what to expect from his wife, this partner he had no hand in choosing, and it is more than relief that is growing within him.

When she turns and looks at him, her face softens, and she walks towards him slowly, her hips swaying in the firelight, and he is suddenly incredibly glad she brought the new fire with them – he wants to see everything.

“I saw again,” she whispers when she reaches him. Her hands hang at her sides, and he draws her toward him until her stomach is at a height with his head, and she reaches around to toy with the ends of his hair. He needs a haircut, she thinks, but she is reluctant to cut it. “It’s – almost starting to feel normal,” she says, and can’t quite believe it.

“What do you see?” he asks, rubbing gently at her wrists.

“Possible futures, I think,” she responds, gazing over his head. “Or – alternative lives, perhaps.” She glances back down at him, and her eyes are sure. “You are in one of them, and that is the one I want to choose.”

He leans toward her, pulling her gently at the same time until she’s sitting facing him, resting in his lap. She rests her head against his neck, nose buried where his shoulder meets his neck, and it is just for the slightest moment that he worries for her, but then her lips are seeking out the tenderest parts of his neck, mouthing at them just so, and he loses his train of thought in the feeling.

As she kisses her way up his neck, he pets down her back, till his hands are resting at her hips, bunching lightly in her pants, and when her lips finally meet his, when she sighs into his mouth, it is one of the most precious moments in his life to this point.

It is slow between them at first, making out, curled up in each other in front of the fire, but when Clarke starts rocking slowly against his legs, he grins, just a little feral, against her mouth. 

“You need something?” he asks, voice gone rough, and even though he’s teasing, he’s only barely teasing, and Clarke grins back at him, works a little harder against his leg.

“Not necessarily,” she responds, grinning harder at his groan.

“Clarke,” he says, a thread of desperation running through his voice. He runs his hands up her sides, stroking under her breasts lightly with his thumbs, and that sensation alone has her dropping her head back, giving him access to her throat, and he is on her hungrily, nipping at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and though he doesn’t bite down hard, she still shivers against him.

He can’t decide what he wants, doesn’t even really know what she wants; he’s torn between stripping her bare and fucking her, and taking it as slow as possible, drawing it out until it’s almost torturous. 

In the end, Clarke looks at him, eyes heady and languid in the firelight, and tells him: “Bellamy, fuck me.”

It’s all the instruction he needs before he’s scrambling out of his clothes like it’s his first time, and she watches, all amusement as she takes her time, folding her clothes, and now he thinks she’s turning the tables on him, slowly torturing him as the ivory of her skin is slowly revealed. 

When she finally lies back, he stands over her just briefly, taking her all in, and she can barely stand it; they were strangers mere months ago, and mere months before that, she couldn’t even imagine the world she’s living in now. But here she is, full of warmth and happiness, and something like love that is just threatening to burst out of her chest. So, she reaches out to him, and when he takes her hand, it’s the final piece of the puzzle, fitting together.

When he thrusts into her for the first time, it’s not perfection, and it takes little time for them to find a rhythm, but when she wraps her legs around his back to urge him on, he wastes no time, continuing to kiss at her neck and throat. When she gets closer, he reaches between them, rubs at her clit, and she is coming in short order, seeing stars, electricity lighting a fire in her veins. She loses all thought of a lonely, grey existence, and falls back into this world, the one with fire and ceremony, Bellamy, and family and a home. 

He comes shortly after she comes back down, and once they’re both recovered, Bellamy having found a clean cloth to clean them both up a bit, he lies back down next to her, and she traces the freckles on his face with her eyes, seeking to memorize the beauty of the patterns there. He is a study in contrasts, and she never wants to stop learning it, she thinks as she lies with him. They are both quiet, but eventually he tangles one of his hands with hers, brings her knuckles to his mouth for a kiss, and she rolls back into him. 

“I’m glad it was you,” she whispers, her breath fanning across his back.

He kisses her knuckles again, tucks their hands to his chest. “Me too,” he says.

\--  
_Midsummer_

Little Athena is barely born when Midsummer is upon them. She is perfect and healthy, wailing her way into the world in harmony with her mother, and Clarke can practically hear Bellamy pacing outside Lincoln and Octavia’s house at the sound of his sister’s agony, but Clarke and Nyko are both on hand, Lincoln is supporting Octavia, and with a final push, Clarke’s niece (her niece, words that are barely still recognized for the hundred) is brought into the world, all dark hair and strong lungs.

When Octavia and the baby are settled, the afterbirth taken care of, and Clark and Nyko confident in Octavia’s wellbeing, Clarke washes her hands in moonshine, and walks out to Bellamy. He’s slouched down now, but the expression on his face is tense.

“She’s fine,” Clarke says, smiling down at him. “You have a niece.”

Bellamy jumps up and immediately wraps Clarke up in his arms. Her face settles in the spot between his neck and shoulder, the spot that she thinks of as hers now. She breathes deep, smelling the familiar smell of him, and relaxes into his hold.

“Thank you for being with her,” he mutters into her hair.

Clarke smiles again. “It was my pleasure. After all, I got to meet her even before you did,” she teases, pulling away briefly.

He grins at her. “That might be, but we both know I’m the one who will spoil her.” 

Clarke laughs. “I would expect no different,” she says. “Octavia can see you in a little bit, but she needs to rest.”

Bellamy nods, and draws her back in, kissing her forehead. They breathe each other in just a little longer before separating.  
-  
Midsummer is two days after Athena’s birth, and though Octavia is recovering well, Clarke, Bellamy, and several of the hundred take on the bulk of preparation for the festival. Bellamy has told her that Midsummer is no different from the other three festivals she’s now seen; plenty of food, plenty of fire. This time, though, they celebrate later into the night, basking in the late sunset, the long days. It’s a day for playing in the river first, and Bellamy and Clarke make quick work of sneaking off to a small pool by themselves, wrapped up in each other and the water around them.

As she rests in his arms, letting the cool water flow around and between them, Clarke listens as Bellamy quietly relates the importance of the time of year. “It’s not when the seasons change,” he explains, whispering the words into her neck, causing chills to run down her spine. She can feel his grin against her skin. “But it’s the day that the sun has the greatest strength, before it starts to wane. We celebrate the longest day, just like we celebrate the longest night.”

Clarke nods against him, languid. “You all just love an excuse to throw a party,” she teases, lifting her head to look him in the eye.

He shrugs, and she’s surprised at how serious he is. “Of course, yeah. But – it’s the height of the most bountiful season. It’s worth celebrating.”

She sobers for a minute, thinking about how the bombs 97 years ago would have devastated the planet. Celebrating the life, the living, in spite of everything, that still goes on here is worth celebrating.

Once they pull themselves out of the water, they link hands, swinging them a little back and forth between them. It’s a lighthearted day, like all the festivals have been since their marriage, but there’s something especially giddy about having bathed together, and knowing that the night ahead is one of celebration. They’ve worked hard through the summer, and she knows this pattern will continue for her foreseeable future. Bellamy is right when he says that celebrations are important, she muses.

On the way back home, Bellamy points out various plants and flowers, and although she’s becoming more and more familiar with Earth’s flora, she nevertheless spies new plants every time she’s out. She recognizes some blooms from Earth Skills, but most of her knowledge comes from working with Nyko or from Bellamy’s instruction. She starts picking flowers here and there, knowing that part of tonight’s celebration, like Midwinter, involves greenery over their doorway.

By the time they’ve arrived back home, she’s braided together a garland of ferns and flowers, and she’s satisfied with it when she sets it over their lintel. When she turns around, she sees Bellamy smiling at her, and it’s such a fond smile, she has to ask, “What?”

He shakes his head, and she misses his curls a little, now that she’s trimmed them, but – “Nothing. It’s just that – it’s like you’re from here,” he says, with a wry smile. “It’s like you never came from anywhere. You belong.”

She smiles, hesitant. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

He reaches for her. “The best. It’s just remarkable. You’re remarkable.”

She can feel the blush on her cheeks now, doesn’t know where to look. It’s praise she’s not sure she deserves, but she also feels the thrill of pride. Growing up on the Ark as the Doctor and Engineer’s daughter meant she didn’t have to try much. Being on the Ground, though – every step can feel like a trial, sometimes. 

He moves towards her then, crowding her just a little into the doorway, and she has to laugh, his mouth catching her smile and her laughter.  
\--  
The nighttime gathering starts when the sun is still high on the horizon; there’s freshly roasted meat, greens from the garden, something close to a pie – it’s bliss to Clarke, even after the months she’s spent on Earth. She continues to be astounded some days that their hard work actually pays off in such tangible ways, and it’s yet another reason to celebrate.

She and Bellamy stay close to Octavia and Lincoln, and Bellamy spends at least half of his time holding Athena until Octavia finally rolls her eyes and takes her daughter back, forcing Bellamy to eat and focus on the music that’s starting up around them.

Live music is still novel to Clarke, even though she’s heard it here and again; certainly, it’s been part of every holiday she’s participated in, but each time, it’s different. This time, like at Samhain, the music is a little wild, fast, drums beating loud and fierce, people moving around the bonfire, and it’s not really magic, she thinks, but it looks magical, charmed, unbridled and in some way separate from the people they are in their everyday.

She’s content to watch for a long time, seeing their people move together seamlessly, as though they’ve never been any different, and it brings her back to that afternoon, to Bellamy’s words. Belonging feels like a new concept in some way, and it’s something she wants to embrace wholeheartedly.

When the sun finally sets, the last traces of color wiped from the sky, the music changes, just for a minute. The drums fade to the back, and a string instrument takes on a clear, high pitched tune, one that is fast and whirling, and suddenly Clarke sees small, white lights rising at the edge of the clearing. They move in time with the music, swirling through the flames and back out again. Clarke nudges Bellamy gently, points to them, but he only looks at her in confusion.

“What do you see, Clarke?” he asks, brow furrowed.

“The white lights – don’t you see them?” she whispers back.

He shakes his head slowly. “No – but…” he trails off. “They could be will-‘o-the-wisps, I suppose,” he speculates. “They’re spirits of some kind. I don’t know anyone who’s seen them before,” he says, looking towards the fire.

Clarke shakes her head, confused. “You really don’t see them?” she asks again.

Bellamy shakes his head again. As they’ve talked, the lights have sped up with the music, performing their own kind of dance, and Clarke is enraptured, watching it. She wishes Bellamy could see it, but for the time, she finds she can’t look away.

It’s like every other time, only it’s the near hypnotism of the lights’ movement that tips her into the greyscale.

The first thing she sees is her mother, but her mother is – off. Twitchy, pale, too thin, and Clarke barely recognizes her for the shadows lying on her face. Still, she’s so relieved to see her that she’s running towards her – but her mother is wearing some sort of collar, and when Clarke looks around, she sees that she’s not the only one.

Now, the scene is color, and she can feel the warmth of the sun on her body, can feel her growing stomach. She’s tired, but it’s the kind of tired that comes from the satisfaction of doing work. When she turns her head, she sees Bellamy, carrying his niece on his hip and showing her through the garden. All is well, she thinks.

When the song ends, Clarke shakes herself out of her vision, squeezes Bellamy’s hand. When he looks back at her, he sees the dilation of her pupils, the faraway look lingering in her eyes, but she’s back with him. He thinks, briefly, of the stories his mother told him, of people who see when the veil is thin, and he never expected a woman from the sky to be the type, but then, he never expected to meet a woman from the sky.

The drums kick back in, and when Clarke looks back at the fire, the wisps are gone; the fire is itself again, a blazing bonfire filling the sky with flame and smoke, and she is suddenly wild with the desire to dance. She pulls Bellamy up with her, and though they are no more coordinated than they’ve ever been, she’s laughing and sweating and they’re falling together.

When he fucks her later that night, she smiles a little at the visions she’s seen, surrenders herself to sensation.

\--  
_Samhain_

“I have a present for you,” she says, feeling a little coy.

“Oh?” he quirks an eyebrow at her. He’s been reading today, taking time to recover from the week and the preparations for Samhain.

Clarke starts to pull her shirt over her head, and he sits up, hands immediately pulling her towards him.

She laughs, her head still tangled in her shirt. “Not quite that,” she teases, pulling her shirt the rest of the way off. She turns just a little in his hold, and it’s then that he sees the black ink on her skin, the stylized tree that matches his own. It’s still red and puffy, but it is nearly identical to his, the lines slightly softer. He traces his thumb over it gently, looks up at Clarke.

She’s biting her lip, looking down at him with uncertainty on her face. “What do you think?” she asks quietly.

He brushes his thumb against it one more time, then surges up to kiss her. “It’s perfect,” he whispers against her lips. “You did it for me?”

She nods, smiling against his mouth. “I asked Octavia about yours. I thought maybe it’s was a Trigedakru tattoo, and she said it was, but it was also yours, in particular. Well – I’m yours, too,” she says. “We’re each other’s.”

He’s momentarily flooded with love for this woman, who was born in the sky, made it to the ground, and has not only survived, but thrived here, and he can’t help but be overwhelmed by her in this moment.  
“Clarke – “

She looks at him, sees him struggling for words, and presses her mouth to his again. “I know,” she says, taking a deep breath. “I know.”

They haven’t said it yet. It’s not something Clarke’s people said much, he’s learned, and it’s not something he’s said much. He knows Octavia knows he loves her, but their mother never said those words to them, and it’s amazing how someone gets out of practice saying those words.

Still, here, in this moment, he feels consumed by how much he loves Clarke, how much he is in love with her, and he didn’t really know a body could hold so much feeling, but – 

“Why now?” he leans back to ask.

“Why not now?” she asks. “It’s been a year. We’ve made it a year.” She smiles at him, and while the words seem so small, they both know that it’s been a year of growth together, one that they’d never trade.  
\--  
Later that night, they get ready for the festival again, and Clarke dons the same mask he gave her last year. She’s learned so much in this singular year; the idea of spirits last year was mere superstition, and although she still doesn’t have words for some of what she sees and experiences on earth, spiritual or otherwise. When Bellamy ties her mask on, he brushes his lips to the back of her neck, sending fleeting chills down her spine. When she turns to look at him, his eyes are full of promise, and she grins fiercely at him.

She knows what to expect when they split the apple, this time. This time, though, she’s thrust into her past, into life on the Ark, before being thrust into what she now thinks of as the future. She knows what she will see in the future – it is living, and it is family, and she is ready for it, whatever comes.


End file.
